No Place For The Angels
by LostInWonderland72
Summary: Arrested at the barricade, the Amis are sentenced to life in prison and become the very oppressed for whose rights they had fought. Their courage, spirits and the strength of their brotherhood is tested to the very core. Can they survive in this harsh place, and will they ever walk in freedom again? Book/musical/film based AU.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: **So, my first multi-chapter Les Mis fic (maybe)! I would love you to let me know if I should continue and also-if so-whether I should keep Javert alive or not. He doesn't come into this chapter, so that's still open ended. For the record, Le Bagne de Brest is a real French prison that was operating at this time, but the only in-depth information I could find on it was in French, which I do not speak nearly proficiently enough to translate it. So I am using the information I have on Le Bagne de Toulon (Valjean's prison) and substituting it (except the bit about it being a common place to send lifers, which is true of Brest). This uses the idea that all of the Amis, including Gavroche and excepting Marius, survived the barricade and were arrested-I think I wrote it partly because I am in denial that they all died, and I love the 2012 film portrayals of them (except Bossuet, who is annoyingly not-bald). This is just a brief opening chapter. Enjoy!

* * *

_Look down! Look down!  
Don't look them in the eye!_

* * *

It's hot in the courtroom.

No, it's more than hot. It's stifling, suffocating. Little rivers of sweat meander their way down the judge's face from under his wig. His face is puffed up; glistening, red and ugly. He smells the blood of traitors. He feels the hunter's thrill of cornering his prey.

The prey in question are chained together in a row on one side of the courthouse. Every last one gazes squarely out across the room in a defiant display of courage, and every last one strives for some small contact with the friend next to him, shoulders brushing in an effort to feel united against the simmering hostility of the court.

Expectation sits heavy in the air. The crowd, packed indecently close in order to squeeze as many eager spectators into the trial of the already famous would-be revolutionaries, looks on in a collectively accusatory silence. Their faces are dark, eyes gleaming with the resentment and savage eagerness felt towards those they are about to see condemned. They swelter, anticipating. They had noticed with disdain the sympathetic crowd of the poor gather outside the courthouse in a quiet display of support for the revolutionaries and now they wait, slavering, for the sentence of the first to be announced.

The court has covered all of the usual trial procedures, but everyone there knows that they are formalities only. The manacled line of filthy youths are, undeniably, guilty. The judge surveys his defendants superciliously. One could hardly believe that they ever could have led a rebellion, let alone that they could drag a disproportionately large number of the National Guard down with them when their barricade fell. Dirt and blood cling to them like a second skin. They have not been permitted to change their clothes since they were hauled away from the barricade. His gaze reaches the end of line, where it drops in height down to a pair of young, fierce eyes. In his mind, the boy is as criminally accountable as any of his older fellows.

Finally, he turns his attention to the one currently standing trial. The youth grips at his chains, possessing them. His fingers go white under streaks of red and brown. His jaw juts defiantly and his eyes are steady, resting unwaveringly on the countenance of the judge.

_Condemn me, _his face says. _You will never defeat our cause._

Certainly, he is the sort of person who could turn you to his opinion with a mere look. Even the judge, staunch monarchist that he is, can appreciate this allure. The angles of his face are sharp, very nearly jarring, but orchestrated to perfection, leading to an overall impression of striking, exquisite beauty. His hair, though currently dishevelled and dirty, could be spun sunlight. His eyes are a hot, virulent blue. He looks like a righteously militant archangel; the captain of heaven's vanguard. He glances down at his papers. The room holds its breath.

"Rene Enjolras."

There is no acknowledgement of this address from the youth himself, only that constant, proud watchfulness. His persistent lack of fear irks the judge. He is used to men cowering before him, but he cannot escape the feeling that this Enjolras is not unaccustomed to the same, despite their being as opposite as the poles. The judge delivers his sentence with vicious relish.

"I pronounce you guilty of inciting an attempted rebellion against His Majesty Louis-Philippe I, an act of treason. I hereby sentence you to a lifetime of imprisonment and hard labour at Le Bagne de Brest."

_Brest_ ripples around the room. The prison at Brest was no kind place, known for the cruelty of its labour and the brutality of its guards. It was the grim, distant residence to which the court so often pushed those given a life sentence, and so it was known also for the rampant violence of its inmates.

The defendant, Rene Enjolras, just has time to jerk his chin once in an aloof gesture of comprehension before he is seized and shoved back into the line, and the next is hauled up before the judge, and the perfunctory trial begins again.

* * *

"Raymond Combeferre..."

Combeferre does not listen to his charges. He watches his friends as they wait their turn, apparently unafraid, and in his mind he lists all of the miniscule details of each of their demeanours that tell him that they are frightened, except for Enjolras, who is, as always, inscrutable when it comes to the toll of sacrifice.

"...hereby sentence you to a lifetime of imprisonment and hard labour at Le Bagne de Brest."

* * *

"Antoine Julien de Courfeyrac..."

Even here, even now, Courfeyrac winces as he is assaulted with his full title, and most mercilessly of all, his dreaded participle. He receives his sentence with uncharacteristically steely eyes.

"...sentence you to a lifetime of imprisonment and hard labour at Le Bagne de Brest."

* * *

"Guillaume Feuilly..."

Feuilly counts the links in his chains until he remembers the half-finished fan lying on his worktop at the fan-seller's, and wonders, bizarrely, if anyone will think to finish it for him. He hopes they do. He hopes they sell it to a poor woman cheap and it makes her happy.

"...I hereby sentence you to a lifetime of imprisonment and hard labour at Le Bagne de Brest."

* * *

"Olivier Joly..."

In what feels a somewhat pathetic revenge, Joly idly but spitefully diagnoses the judge with several unpleasant and fatal illnesses in his head, because it keeps him from dwelling on how rotten their glorious fight has turned.

"...sentence you to a lifetime of imprisonment and hard labour at Le Bagne de Brest."

* * *

"Jacques Bahorel..."

Bahorel has never wanted to punch somebody in the face as ferociously as he does now, but he has never been standing trial with his hands manacled as he is now. When the sentence rolls predictably off the judge's tongue, he is compensates by expressing all of their sentiments and spitting bitterly on the floor.

"...I hereby sentence you to a lifetime of imprisonment and hard labour at Le Bagne de Brest."

* * *

"Nicolas Grantaire..."

Grantaire does not have room within himself to focus on anything beyond the uncomfortable lack of alcohol in his blood. He does not care, as is his prerogative, that he is being given a lifetime prison sentence for something that he never believed in. He twists his chains in his hands to hide their shaking, lest his friends should mistake it for fear to be counted among them.

"...hereby sentence you to a lifetime of imprisonment and hard labour at Le Bagne de Brest."

* * *

"Jean Prouvaire..."

Jehan receives his sentence with a grace second only to Enjolras's and a sorrowful downward glance. Under his breath, he murmurs all the lines of poetry that he can think of that tell of brotherhood and endurance, and locks them in his heart.

"...hereby sentence you to a lifetime of imprisonment and hard labour at Le Bagne de Brest."

* * *

"Henri Lesgles..."

Lesgles sighs and remembers the back room of the Musain after a meeting, full of smoke and the symphony of his friends' laughter, and prays that Fortune will be kind enough to land him with his brothers in this. As it happens, she does.

"...I hereby sentence you to a lifetime of imprisonment and hard labour at Le Bagne de Brest."

* * *

At least Enjolras will not have to face Brest alone. It is done, and they are condemned. But as the last of their line is led up to stand trial, every Ami tenses almost imperceptibly, their breath catching, eyes sharp.

Gavroche can barely see the judge over the wooden rail. He peers dauntlessly at the large, sweaty man, and notes with satisfaction how he has to press his considerable weight forwards to be able to look at Gavroche at all.

"Gavroche Thenadier?"

It is more a question than a statement, as though the judge can barely believe the age of the boy he is trying for treason. Gavroche gives one curt nod, the way he'd seen Enjolras do, lip curling slightly as he is tagged with his father's name. The judge clears his throat thunderously, as though to sweep his previous uncertainty out of the room. Even from here, Gavroche can tell that he is not a man who can stand appearing out of control. The crowd in the courthouse shifts uneasily. They are less comfortable in their eagerness for justice on this boy. It is easy to condemn a man, but no one wishes to be seen as responsible for condemning a child.

Gavroche wonders what his sentence will be. He almost wants the judge to repeat the sentence he had dealt his ragtag band of surrogate older brothers, just to prove that he too is dangerous enough to the throne for the court to have to lock him away for life. But in a tiny corner of his heart, he is petrified. The courthouse is crushingly large and rich. He had trusted in his courage as he stood at Bossuet's side, but on his own before the judge with every eye on him, he has never been so exposed. He feels dizzy with uncertainty and sick with the terror of not knowing.

A short time later, his questions are answered.

"I pronounce you guilty of assisting rebellion against His Majesty Louis-Philippe I, an act of treason. Taking your age into account and the likelihood of you having been influenced by these villains, I sentence you to five years' imprisonment in Le Bagne de Brest."

A rush of relief for Gavroche-five years until he is separated from his friends-and a knife of dread in his gut. Prison is the pit into which no gamin wishes to fall. There is also a small sting of childish disappointment that he was only worth charging with _assisting rebellion_ as opposed to _attempting rebellion_ like Courfeyrac and the others, or better yet, _inciting rebellion _like Enjolras.

There is an animalistic noise of outrage from Courfeyrac which changes into a brief, pained yelp as Feuilly, chained next to him, stamps on his toes. One wrong move, and they could all be for the firing squad. Gavroche twists around and gives them all a brave grin, which they all attempt to return with varying degrees of success.

Of all the outcomes they had considered for the rebellion, this had been the least considered and thought the least likely. In some ways, it was the worst possible, and perhaps that is why they had shied from discussing it. Whatever they did, they had wanted to do it blazingly, either overthrowing the monarchy and razing the old world to the ground, or martyring themselves for their beliefs in showers of fire. They had not expected this sudden burn-out. They had not expected to be turned into ash, left cold and crumbling.

Yet under this ash, one tiny coal smoulders. They are together, and that is something.

* * *

**A/N: **I'd love to know whether I should continue with this and whether I should keep Javert alive (he wouldn't have a major role at the beginning, but may pop up later...). We should get more in-depth with the boys next chapter! Also, a big thank-you to stagepageandscreen for helping me with the names of the Amis! Review, anyone...? :)


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: **As I'm sure you've noticed, I have decided to continue with this fic, since a distinct plot fell into my head a few days ago. Thank you so much to all the lovely people who reviewed and encouraged me to continue with this!

Also, last time I checked, the only things of Les Miserables I owned was a copy of the Brick, a copy of the 2012 film, a few old tickets and a programme from the Queen's Theatre London, and an unhealthy obsession. No rights, royalties, nada. Damn :)

* * *

_Look down! Look down!  
You're here until you die!_

* * *

It takes days to travel to Brest from Paris, and the stuffy, claustrophobic hours spent inside the guarded carriages feel oddly hollow to their young prisoners, after that brief, incandescent period of cannons and gunpowder and bayonets and torn red flags.

The first carriage contains Feuilly, Lesgles, Prouvaire, Combeferre, two stone faced guards and a dense fog of pensive silence. Combeferre is crammed between Jehan and one of the nameless guards. He glances to his right and sees Jehan gazing softly and tragically out of the window, his mouth pressed into a white, anxious line. Since he is seated to Jehan's left, he cannot see the spray of red that gruesomely adorns the poet's right lily-pale cheek, from an explosion of wooden splinters at the barricade which now seems worlds away. The marks are thin but angry, like scratches from the claws of a furious animal. Yet this is rather an inappropriate simile, Combeferre absent-mindedly muses. He has never known an animal fail to adore Jehan.

He wonders briefly if there are guard dogs at the prison, and whether, if so, they will roll onto their backs, begging to be tickled by a cooing Jehan like so many dogs before them, or if they will snarl and snap their jaws savagely in his direction.

It makes his heart clench to think of their poet incarcerated ruthlessly behind cold iron bars, with no paper to pour out his endlessly creative soul onto and no ink to do it with. He winces to imagine Jehan under the cruel lash, crushed like a fistful of rose petals, his flights of whimsical fantasy grounded by clipped wings, and flinches from the thought. Of all of the Amis, Jehan is least suited to prison. His smile is the most open, his heart is the most loving, his soul is the most pure. To see these things destroyed by condemnation and pain would be an end not just for Jehan, but for all of them. Combeferre silently vows to himself that he will not allow these precious things to be tarnished in the coming days and months and years of their imprisonment.

Glancing right again, he thinks that he detects the faintest tremble in Jehan's lips, so he quietly slips his hand between the two of them to where Jehan's rests, slowly and stealthily to avoid attracting the attention of the guards with a clanging of his chains, and interweaves his fingers with Jehan's own, which are long and slender and made for holding a pen, not a gun. They are still awash with faded ink stains under the blood and filth. The poet does not look around, but he does blow out a shaky breath that Combeferre had not noticed he was holding and smiles slightly out of the window. They will all be together. That will have to be enough.

* * *

The second carriage contains Joly, Courfeyrac, Bahorel, Gavroche, and again, two guards, glancing nervously at Bahorel. They had hoisted Gavroche onto the carriage seat next to him, complaining of the bearish size of the man, and had to compensate space with Gavroche's small, lithe frame to be able to fit a guard on the bench with them. Bahorel, despite his handcuffs, had managed to find a way to lay an arm around the small boy, and for once he does not shrug off the comforting contact. He huddles close to Bahorel and sleeps from time to time, blond head resting lightly on his chest, dwarfed even more by the colossal size of the man.

When he does not sleep, Courfeyrac, seated opposite Gavroche, attempts valiantly to entertain and distract him. They are not permitted to talk, but Courfeyrac playfully prods at Gavroche's feet with his own and twists his face into strange and amusing expressions when the guards are not looking, earning him incredulous glances from Joly and Bahorel and giggles from Gavroche, quickly stifled in Bahorel's shirt. Courfeyrac cannot escape the foreboding feeling that he must try to squeeze as much laughter out of these stolen hours of freedom as he can, and memorize every shifting pitch of this tiny, babbling sound of joy, for he cannot imagine that there is any innocent laughter where they are headed and he fears that it is the last he will hear. But they will be together, and that must be enough.

* * *

The final carriage contains only Enjolras and Grantaire, and three guards. They two had been arrested last at the barricades and since they had held out the longest, not knowing the truth of Grantaire, the authorities had assumed them both to be the most dangerous. They sit opposite one another, Grantaire slumped dejectedly forwards, elbows on his knees, gazing morosely at the patch of floor between his feet, Enjolras with his back as straight as a rod with clear eyes fixed unwaveringly on the dark, bowed head opposite him.

He is aware, despite their world shifting and changing around them with breathless speed since the General died, that he and Grantaire now stand at a crossroads.

Grantaire's last act at the barricade is proving impossible for Enjolras to ignore. It haunts him, teases his mind in the drawn out, sun-stewed hours inside the carriage. He can see it in the shimmering air above the road, again and again. Grantaire, meeting Enjolras's defeated eyes with wide eyed stare of piercing blue. Grantaire, drunk, but as sober as he'd ever seen him. Grantaire, striding towards him though the squad of National Guards, dust motes dancing in his wake, gilded in the blindingly golden sunlight. Grantaire, standing up to die with him with stunning courage and conviction that Enjolras had not thought the drunken cynic capable of.

But they had not died, and now they find themselves at a crossroads. The choice of direction is Enjolras's. He is always the one who must make the choice.

The easiest and clearest choice is obvious. They would continue as they always had done. Enjolras would be disdainful to the point of cruelty, and Grantaire would be adoring and antagonistic. They could slip back into their routine of Apollo and worshipper, idealist and skeptic, scorner and drunkard, indifferent and devoted. All it would take would be a harsh word or a cold glance, and then normality would return to one small facet of their lives.

Alternatively, he could try. Enjolras has long given up attempting to stop counting Grantaire as _one of them, _because he is undeniably as much a member of their family as any of them and their collective arrest makes them indivisible. Besides, Grantaire had shown himself to have strength of heart equal or at least comparable to any of theirs when he had stood up with Enjolras before the guns at the barricade. However, treating him as _one of them _is a different question entirely. He has always shadowed the fringes of their little group, never stepping into the warmth and light completely, knowing, perhaps, that he was not wanted there. Or, more specifically, that Enjolras did not want him there. Perhaps he did not wish to taint the light with his mottled darkness. He is an artist. He stands back and observes the beautiful things, he is not one of them.

Enjolras wonders what would happen if he were to grasp Grantaire's hand and pull him fully into the glowing circle of their friendship, marking him as a brother to them all by his own acceptance. For he knows, in a corner of his heart, that it is only really his lack of acceptance that keeps Grantaire out. He wonders if he could do it, if he could try.

With this debate in mind, he drifts into a restless slumber.

* * *

When he awakes much later, it is because of the lack of movement from the carriage. It has stopped at the side of the road and one door is open to the blistering air and there is only one guard sitting in it with him. Enjolras snaps his head around wildly, throwing off the befuddlement of sleep. He half rises, suddenly desperate to know what is happening.

"What-"

"Shh!"

His remaining guard catches his shoulder and shoves him back into a sitting position with a warning glare. Huffing a little, Enjolras steadies his mind from his momentary panic and takes a more considered look around. It is then that he catches sight of Grantaire outside of the carriage, on his knees at the dusty roadside, retching. Even from here, Enjolras can see how he is trembling pitiably, how his shoulders heave painfully. Without a thought, he attempts to rise again, only to be caught again and slammed more forcefully back into his seat.

"Stay put!"

Minutes later, they haul Grantaire back into the carriage. He is shaking so violently that his chains jangle and the sound grates on their ears. His face has taken on a waxen pallor and a sheen of sweat shines over his skin. Enjolras is no doctor, but he counts two amongst his closest friends and he knows a fever when he sees one.

In a heartbeat, he chooses his direction.

"Please, my friend is not-"

"Shut it, convict!"

Enjolras swallows his annoyance and persists calmly, knowing that anger will get him nowhere here. His only chance of success is if he acts the suppliant.

"My friend is not well. Please, if you let him lie across the seat with me-"

"What, so that the two of you can leap out of the carriage at the first opportunity?" a guard sneers, mocking.

"So that you won't have to stop the carriage often, if he's more comfortable," Enjolras counters smoothly.

The guards have an exchange that consists largely of non-committal grunts and ambivalent shrugs, before eventually allowing Grantaire to collapse across the seat next to Enjolras. Enjolras shifts him so that he can curl up relatively comfortably, his back pressed lengthways against the back of the carriage seat, and settles his head into his lap. Enjolras's lap is a poor pillow-his muscles are hard and the cloth of his slacks is dirty and not very fine, but Grantaire falls onto it as though it were luxury enough for a king and is asleep within moments. Abruptly, Enjolras finds himself drained of any loathing for the cynic, at least for these quiet hours.

He lays a light hand on Grantaire's brow and frowns at the heat. He wants Combeferre or Joly, his own medical training is scant at best, quick fixes designed to keep a man going until he could reach a proper doctor. But for now at least, he is the only one Grantaire has.

He thinks briefly what he would do if it were Courfeyrac or Jehan or any other Ami in his lap, unsure of how to proceed in the direction he has chosen, and carefully slides a hand through Grantaire's dark curls. It looks as though threads of ink have spilled across his fingers. He feels Grantaire relax further in his sleep, sink more deeply into his lap, so he continues raking his hand gently through his hair, ease restored. He glowers at the three guards opposite, daring them to object to this affectionate display. None of them do.

For the moment, it is enough.

* * *

**A/N: **I should say here that this isn't a slash story. While this chapter is the first one that shows them being pretty physically affectionate, I don't mean to imply that any of them are gay (no, not even Jehan or Grantaire), just that they are all extremely close. If you want to read it as slash, then you can if you like, I'm certainly not averse to a bit of E/R, it's just not written to be so :) Thanks for reading, please review and let me know if you like it!


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: ** Many thanks to all my lovely reviewers! I'm just going to put a little note up here about the positions of the not-Amis characters in this fic-Eponine is still dead, I'm afraid, as is Valjean, but Javert is not, due to popular demand ;) Marius isn't dead, obviously, but he's not involved at present. He's lying low. For now, at least. Still managed a big fancy wedding with Cosette, though. Now, on with the chapter!

* * *

In a tiny, sprawling town huddled to the land about two days' ride from Brest, the guards are rowing with the town prison bailiff in the prickling evening heat.

"Don't you bloody know how important these prisoners are? They need to be separated as much as possible! They can't all go in one cell!"

"I told you before, it can't be done! I've got my job to do, same as you've got yours! And I'm telling you, there's only one free cell. What, do you want me to let criminals go just so that yours can have their space?"

"These are prisoners of national importance! We cannot cram them all into one cell, it's an invitation for an escape attempt!"

"Well, guard them, then! Is that not what you are paid to do?"

"We're meant to be getting our rest for the journey tomorrow!"

"You mean you want to go out and find the nearest tavern and the ladies with the freest favours? One cell, or no cell at all," the bailiff states flatly.

The guards glance between themselves, their faces shadowed with anger.

"I suppose we have no choice, then."

And this is how it transpires that the Amis find themselves all together again for the first time since they left Paris, if only for a night. The air is clinging and humid and the dirt-streaked walls of their cell seem to press tight around them, crushing and oppressive. With any others, it would be suffocatingly claustrophobic, but they are familiar enough with one another to be comfortable with and even take pleasure in such closeness, after such separation.

Feuilly smiles for the first time in what feels like an age as his friends file into the cell with him. He clasps Combeferre's shoulder, squeezes Bossuet's hand, reaches down to ruffle Gavroche's hair and presses his forehead briefly to Jehan's. They all greet one another, not with words-how could 'hello' even begin to cover it, in their situation? -but quick, tender gestures, reaffirming their affection for one another. His smile barely slips until he sees Grantaire and Enjolras approach. It does not, at first, seem very odd to Feuilly that Grantaire is unsteady on his feet or that strips of red flush paint his cheeks against the pallor of his skin, until he realises that the man cannot possibly be drunk. And then he notes the protective arm that Enjolras has wound tight around Grantaire's waist to guide him and the taut concern in their leader's face, and it strikes him that something is very wrong.

This is not least because ordinarily, Enjolras would not even deign to touch Grantaire, let alone wrap an arm around his waist. As the cell door clangs shut behind them, Feuilly notices how the yellow candlelight glistens wanly on Grantaire's skin, how heavy and ragged his breaths are.

"Feuilly," Enjolras murmurs, warmly grasping his arm in greeting. They both glance towards Grantaire, who manages to tip Feuilly a strained grin. Enjolras's eyes narrow critically and he continues: "Can you get-"

Before he can finish, Feuilly has found Joly's sleeve in the crowd of his friends, judging him to be closer than Combeferre, and tugs him into their corner.

"Jolllly," Grantaire drawls, and it's difficult for them to tell whether it's the fever or his sense of humour that has caused his tongue to smear his friend's name so. Joly's answering smile is tight and anxious.

"Better sit him down, I think."

Enjolras nods and gently deposits Grantaire on the floor so that he sits against the stone wall of their cell and then crouches back onto his heels, staying hunched at Grantaire's level. Joly drops to his knees at Grantaire's side and lays a slender hand on his brow, as Enjolras had done in the carriage.

"Combeferre," he calls urgently, and his summons is sudden and harsh over the soft, muttered conversations taking place between their other friends. There is a silent pause, then Combeferre shoulders through their friends towards them and the conversations resume, more hushed than before. Feuilly steps back to make space for him. Combeferre squats down, mimicking Enjolras, and peers into Grantaire's eyes. The flickering light casts all of their faces into plunging shadows and glowing angles, their features either thrown into candlelit relief or cast into black obscurity. Scraps of darkness and gleams of light dance over their countenances as they speak.

"He's definitely feverish," Joly supplies, carefully taking hold of Grantaire's chin and tilting his head so that he too can see his eyes, which are starkly blue against his bloodless skin.

Combeferre hums in agreement. It is not difficult to deduce the problem here.

"M'fine," Grantaire mumbles, his lips dragging on the words as he bats Joly's probing hands away. "Don't fuss, Joly. M'all right."

"When was your last drink, my friend?" Combeferre inquires carefully and comprehension rises in Joly's eyes. Grantaire squints into his cloudy memories.

"At the barricade... The day we were arrested, prob'ly. Can't be sure..."

There is tension in the glance between the two medical students. Worry is carved into Combeferre's brow and bitten into Joly's lip.

"What? What is it?" Enjolras's tone is so sharp that it could cut glass, sensing an understanding in the air that has left him behind.

"Alcohol withdrawal," answers Combeferre, darkly.

"Then he should recover, should he not? He will be all right," Enjolras's voice has not mellowed.

"He has been drinking heavily for a long time, so his body has come to rely greatly on the alcohol. Withdrawal is not kind, Enjolras. Especially not in a case such as this," Joly replies quietly. There is a moment of silence, and the shadows betray the muscle that clenches briefly in Enjolras's jaw.

"M'fine," Grantaire insists hazily. "S'nothing. Don't waste your concern on me. Got bigger things to worry about."

Enjolras ignores him. "Can anything be done?" Even as it passes his lips, he knows it is a futile question. Regardless of whether anything can be done or not, they are hardly in a position to do it.

Combeferre purses his lips and shakes his head. "He'll have to ride it out, I'm afraid." He turns to direct his words at Grantaire. "Though you should sleep, if you can."

Joly reaches over to squeeze Grantaire's shoulder as he nods his acquiescence, too tired now to protest further. "Sleep well, R."

He goes to join Feuilly as Combeferre gets Grantaire settled, and together they observe Enjolras standing over him like a guardian, his vigilant gaze trained solicitously on the cynic's face. His watchfulness and care is not in itself strange, but applied to Grantaire, it makes an odd sight for the rest of the Amis.

"Well, this is a curious turn," Joly murmurs thoughtfully into Feuilly's ear. "I did not think that Enjolras held any great love for Grantaire."

"It is only the same love that he bears for us all, shown to Grantaire," comes Feuilly's whispered reply.

"And therein lies the curiosity, my friend," says Joly wryly. "I thought he detested him."

Feuilly is quiet for a moment as they watch Enjolras shrug off his waistcoat and fold it deftly before sliding it under Grantaire's head. "Whatever kind of a turn this is, I am glad of it. The last thing we will need in prison is to be divided amongst ourselves. If Enjolras has decided to accept Grantaire, then it allows us all to be unified."

"Just so," smiles Joly, then breaks into a cavernous yawn. "Come, Grantaire is not the only one who must sleep."

As Joly and Feuilly find an open patch of floor to lie on, Enjolras gingerly caresses Grantaire's cheek then rises and turns away, dismissing him into sleep. He casts his eyes around for an empty spot-the Amis have all curled into the spaces of one another's bodies and are slumbering like a litter of new puppies, heads resting on others' shoulders or stomachs or laps, arms flung over each other, hands loosely entwined. It draws a fond smile from Enjolras.

He picks his way across the cell floor and is about to sink into a space between Jehan and Bahorel when a hand seizes his elbow and he finds himself nose to nose with Combeferre.

"What are you doing?" Combeferre mutters, wary of waking the others. His tone is not accusatory, but it is pressing, confidential but searching. "I have never known you show such fondness for Grantaire."

"I..." Enjolras is abruptly uncertain. There is no brief summation of the debate he has been waging with himself in his mind these past few days, no few words to convey to Combeferre the complex and agonising deliberation. He wishes fervently that he could simply open his mind and show Combeferre, show all of the Amis, the searing memory of those few radiant moments as the dawn bled out over the barricade and he had locked eyes with Grantaire, blue on blue, across a room smoky with sunlight, and known that they would stand together for the end of their world, and say here, this is why. I am doing what I am doing because of this.

Enjolras is suddenly conscious of another wakeful presence in the room. He feels Courfeyrac's keen, astute eyes on him from the other side of the cell and knows that he is listening, but he does not mind. A conversation between the three of them is as private as a conversation with himself.

"I once accused Grantaire of being incapable of believing, of thinking, of willing, of living and of dying. He proved me wrong in every respect that morning at the barricade, so I am resolved now to treat him like someone who can do all of those things. To treat him as one of us. It is my wish that..."

He trails off, hesitant. What if he has misjudged, and in reality his Amis are no keener for Grantaire's earnest friendship than he himself had been before the barricade?

"That?" prompts Combeferre, a smile plucking at the corners of his mouth.

"That he should be as much a brother to us as any man in this cell is. I am not, however, under the impression that this will always be easy. I had thought that his greatest problem was that he valued nothing, but I think now that it may rather be that he does not value himself."

Combeferre's smile escapes restraint and blooms wide across his face. "Savour this, Enjolras," he teases lightly. "Emotional insights do not often come along for you."

A muted snuffle of mirth is heard from across the room and Enjolras darts a wrathful glance towards the place where Courfeyrac is lying.

"I was merely saying-" Enjolras begins stiffly, struck with annoyance.

"I know, I know," Combeferre chuckles, laying his hands on Enjolras's shoulders. Enjolras relaxes again at the touch as Combeferre's face grows serious once more, but somehow no less glad. "You know we meant no harm. Your emotional insights are rare, but they would seem to be accurate. For what it is worth, I think it would do Grantaire no end of good if you showed him a little warmth, and the rest of us would feel all the more comfortable in our friendships with him for it. You made him believe in you. Give it time, perhaps you can make him believe in himself."

Enjolras snorts softly, but feels a heavy sadness drop into his chest. It strikes him very suddenly, like a fencing blow, what a melancholy thing it must be to have no belief, when he himself is a being made up of belief entirely. "I doubt even I am up to that task. Yet...perhaps it is worth a try, anyway."

"It is, I think. We will all try, whatever comes of it."

"It is unlikely to be success," Enjolras reminds Combeferre tersely.

Combeferre shrugs. "We'll see. For now, though, we should sleep. We will be at Brest before long."

* * *

**A/N:** I just realised that this chapter is very Grantaire-centric...ah, well. Got to love R. I'm probably just feeling more R-attached than normal because I recently found out that weirdly, George Blagden went to the same school as my friend's brother. Heh, it's a small world. I totally wouldn't gatecrash their next school reunion ;) Please review, I'd love to know what you think!


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